


Beneath Notice

by c0urier_pseud (Anon_Pseuds_When)



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Caesar's Legion, F/M, Humiliation, Masturbation, Misogyny, Porn With Plot, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12710061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_Pseuds_When/pseuds/c0urier_pseud
Summary: Otho has very particular standards where women are concerned, and when the Strip breaks under the might of Caesar's Legion, he gets to enforce those standards upon Courier Six.





	Beneath Notice

Six was a courier, a mercenary, a major leading force in the Mojave theater, perhaps the most important player on the field, but she had never felt less so than just now.

Her knees chafed against the roughspun rug beneath her as she knelt watching the immobile tent flap, bound and clad in the same formless burlap shift as the slaves who toiled up and down the slopes of Fortification Hill (so far away now from this tent, and her captors had farther to travel still before their journey was up), sans the red X designating her a slave. She had been given no opportunity to clean herself since her capture at the Lucky 38, her eyes flaking with Mojave dust and her hair hanging lank and sullen around her face, grazing her shoulders. She shifted restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the heavy ankle and wrist manacles that bound her restricted most comfortable sitting positions. So she knelt, listening to the sounds of the camp around her slowly grow quiet in tandem with the dimming of the sunset outside. She'd had a long day's march behind the column of Legion men returning to Flagstaff, driven from behind by recruits and trudging alongside captured women and skilled laborers. She thought back to the straight whips carried by the recruits, snapping red welts across the legs of any who could not match the pace of the legion, mostly soft New Vegas citizens she'd failed to protect, whose wounds likely plagued them in their cots far more than her manacles.

Six had no idea why she was being kept apart from the other prisoners. As the driving force behind the House's resistance against the Legion onslaught, she would have been considered a valuable prisoner in wartime. But with the war essentially concluded at the battle of the Lucky 38 and the House's forces all but destroyed, there was little value in her capture now. Nevertheless, she was being kept separate from the other prisoners, bound and closely watched, and gagged to prevent her from speaking to the others. Evidently, the Legion still saw some value in her. During their week-long march southeast down what the Mojave Express maps called "Route 66," Six had gathered that the other prisoners, mostly Followers and Gun Runners, were being kept in a single barracks, guarded but not bound, able to converse amongst themselves. And they had conversed enough to plan an escape attempt. Six wasn't sure if she was glad she'd missed out on the short-lived escape of several Followers, but she knew for certain she didn't envy their fates: after they'd been caught, Six and the other captures had been gathered to watch as several Legion recruits bound the would-be escapees and, with clean and shining machetes, hacked into their heels, severing their heel cords and leaving them lamed. Six hadn't been one of the unlucky few forced to carry the conspirators, but listening to the gasping and choking of the carriers as they toiled under the weight of their helpless fellows, she almost wished she had been. She was more accustomed to carrying a load across the open desert than these doctors and gunsmiths, though she had to admit that as they grew closer and closer to their destination, the increasing sparseness of the air had begun to exhaust her like nothing ever had before. 

By her estimate, based on her limited knowledge of Legion territory, they were one day from the outskirts of Flagstaff. The great green hill on which it was built had come into view two days prior, alongside the signs of greater civilization that Six always associated with big cities: sprawling farms, well-maintained roads, and bustling trading posts. As a Courier, Six could almost convince herself that she was in the wider territory of any other major city, the look was so alike that of the Strip, of New Reno, of Shady Sands and Arroyo, of New Canaan, of Klamath, and even of the blossoming Divide. Places like this were why Six had become a Courier. Watching the shit world she'd been born into constantly building, surviving, and growing... it was a thing of beauty.

At least, it was if you ignored the prominent red X symbols on the backs of the men and women who worked in the fields, clearly visible even at a distance, and ignored the crosses that lined the roads, upon which were strung empty-eyed cadavers who gasped weakly as you passed. Six met the eyes of the first victim they passed, hoping to express empathy, to recognize his pain as human in his last hours, but when she did so, and his dead man's eyes stared, barely seeing, back at her, she looked quickly away. She was ashamed to walk past the rest of them, sweating and dying, bodies breaking, without acknowledging their pain, but she had been unable to bring herself to the task.

Now, kneeling in the same small and lonesome tent she'd been made to erect and occupy every night of their journey thus far, her thoughts strayed curiously to her only companion throughout the past week: a mute girl who brought Six's meal every night, watched her eat, and left. Based on Six's reckoning, it was well past time for her arrival and she had not yet made an appearance. She thought of shouting to the silent recruit who always stood guard outside her tent, but the last time she'd tried to catch her guard's attention, she'd spent the night on her feet, arms suspended above her, and the following day's journey had been one of the longest of her life.

As if summoned by her thoughts of a visitor, the tent flap was pushed aside, but it was not the mute child. It was Otho. Six's lip curled with distaste, and her expression was met with a smirk from the legionary. She looked him up and down, searching for a weapon of some sort, and noted along the way the same thick muscle, shaved head, cold glare, and giant stature that had prevented her from drawing a weapon on him the last time they'd met. Not only was he large and muscular, he had the scarred and craggy face of a seasoned veteran. She made the same decision this time as she had on Fortification Hill, resolving to bide her time and wait for a better opportunity to put the pompous shit in his place. She hadn't lived this long with a silver-chip bounty on her head by starting fights with people bigger, stronger, and more experienced than her. As the details of their last meeting-- a lifetime ago, on Fortification Hill, when she'd been armed, armored, and backed by a powerful army-- came back to her, she felt a knot building in the pit of her stomach.

_"When we meet on the field of battle, Courier, there will be no need for you to play at man's work. I will make you a woman."_

While the mark of Caesar had protected her from harm and harassment back then, this smug and terse arena master had spoken his mind with her, not bothering to disguise his opinion of her career and her position. Now, he was performing the same humiliating, body-raking appraisal that he'd always given her, eyes lingering on her thighs and her breasts. He'd made her uncomfortable back when she'd been armed, but now... Six was familiar with fear, and clearly so was Otho, as his smirk only intensified as his eyes made their way up to her face, which was covered in it.

Seeking to bridge the power gap between them, Six stood (her stiff joints protested after several hours' kneeling) to face him. Six had always been a small woman, but Otho dwarfed her more than most, standing a head and shoulder taller than her, and fully armored in Legion red. Lacking the defenses of a Courier, she felt more than fear. For the first time in... in a long time, Six was vulnerable. Weak.

Unconcerned by her upright position, Otho closed the gap between them, drawing too close to her for comfort, and once again his insufferable smirk intensified. "You should thank me." he drawled. She studied his face for any explanation of his words, but he gave her nothing, only self-assured stoicism. He was waiting for a response, and in light of her refound vulnerability she made a decision to humor him. She cleared her throat, raw from disuse, and said "Thank you?"

He reached for her, almost casually, and she took a rattling step back as her manacles dragged over the floor. With his superior reach, he caught her arm and jerked her back into him, raising his other hand to take her jaw in a firm grasp. He tilted her face up towards his own until she could smell the starchy stink of xander root on his breath as he purred in her face, "I've been sent to free you--" Six's heart skipped a beat. Of all the people she could have expected to be sympathetic to the House's cause, Otho was the last-- "from the delusions of your old life." he finished and Six sneered. There was no end to the Legion's misplaced supremacy, especially where Otho was concerned. "Bullsh--!"

With another violent tug to her jaw, she was lifted onto her toes and Otho's mouth was crushing her lips, demanding, invading... she tried to pull herself away, to turn her face aside, but he planted his grip firmly at the base of her skull, growling low in his chest at the insult of her resistance. She brought a knee up towards his crotch, but only banged it on the wide plate that crossed the front of his armored skirt. Screaming indignantly-- or at least she told herself it was indignation rather than fear-- into his mouth, she succeeded in bringing her manacled hands up between their chests and into the base of his jaw, knocking him back. She shuffled backwards as well as she could, putting the center stake of the tent between him and her. She hadn't wanted a physical confrontation, but she was getting one. She danced from foot to foot, testing the range of movement afforded by her bindings as well as stretching her cramped legs.

He worked his jaw from side to side and spat pink saliva onto the floor. She grinned. She'd made him bite his tongue. As he began to take long, unhindered strides towards her, though, she quickly recognized the futility of this whole situation. Gimped by her bindings, she was quickly caught again, this time by the chain that bound her wrists together, and as quickly as he'd caught her, he dragged her hands over her head and behind it, bowing her elbows and forcing her hands onto either side of her neck. In the same hand, he fisted a handful of her hair and pulled her close again. "I'm not in the mood for this, woman." he told her calmly, then pushed down, the pressure on her shoulders and scalp forcing her to buckle and kneel, level with the wide plate she'd kicked moments earlier. She tested her range of motion again and found it lacking, so she stilled, resolving to save her energy for a better opening. As she glared up at him, he cracked a seemingly genuine smile. "I told you, 'Courier,' that I would make you a woman," he went on, "and I make good on my promises."

With his free hand, Otho began to undo the complex-looking belt of his armor, and Six felt her eyes widen. "Wait." she choked. Speech was difficult due to the upward angle of her face, her throat twisted harshly upwards. Otho's teeth glittered in the wan twilight. "This is why I volunteered for this." His belt his the carpet at the tops of her knees. "Making a good woman out of a degenerate whore like you is a task that my brothers have no time for, but I assure you, woman... I am up to the task."

She opened her mouth to argue, but was met with a stinging, open-handed strike across her kiss-swollen lips. Growling with frustration, she managed "Fuck you!" before a second and third slap snapped over her mouth. Blood boiling, Six unleashed a string of every profanity she could think of to describe his smug, sick, self-important demeanor, but instead of hitting her he squatted to her level and mashed his lips onto hers again. This time she could taste the blood in his mouth, but she hardly had time to feel satisfied because he closed his free hand around her throat, right at the base of her chin, and began to squeeze. Immediately, she was aware of an acute pain accompanying the pounding of her heart, right where Otho's fingers were connecting. Behind her eyes, stars began to swim from the corners of her vision to the center, slowly obscuring the world behind a curtain of nonsense shapes. Perfectly able to breathe but laboring to do so, and feeling the pulse of her heart in every inch of her face, Six began her struggle anew, but the chain that he pressed into the back of her neck might as well have been the full weight of a brahmin. She knelt there, unable to unfold her legs, unable to rise or use her arms at all. She parted her lips, pulling the corners of her mouth back from his in an attempt to bring in more air as she labored to gasp more oxygen into her body, and he pressed his advantage, forcing his tongue between her teeth and over the back of her throat, gagging her further. She felt her body begin to slacken as the stars began to obscure her vision, and in a panic she thrashed back and forth as far as her position and bindings would allow, failing to connect in any way with her attacker. When Otho had satisfied himself with her mouth, he drew back slightly and watched her face. His eyes, sparkling with obvious arousal, as well as his red-stained teeth, were the last thing she saw as the stars all met at the center of her vision, obscuring the world completely from her eyes. Just as she felt consciousness slipping away from her, he released his hold on her neck and blood came rushing back into her skull alongside an instant headache. The air tasted like blood-- or maybe that was her mouth-- as she continued gasping for air, trying to regulate her breathing. Eyes still fixed on her flushed and swollen face, Otho dropped his armored skirt to the ground, reaching beneath his crimson tunic and freeing his bobbing cock, mostly hard, from his underpants.

Her head fuzzy and her body exhausted, she mumbled weakly in protest, but as she once again took stock of her resources, she felt more helpless than ever before. Otho had all the power. He was too large, and too thickly muscled... and too willing to harm her to get his way. Her face burning as fresh blood flowed into her cheeks, she averted her gaze to the rug at her feet and tried to picture her confiscated rifle vibrating in her hands as she unloaded a full clip of shining bullets into Otho's face. He had begun to stroke his cock, watching her face shift between fear and disgust and hatred, and with a voice roughened by arousal he panted "Do you know how to please a man, woman?"

She didn't answer, but stress at the invasive question stung her eyes with budding tears as she tried to look at anything but the hard member being jerked at her face.

"Of course you don't," he growled, "What a waste. All that time spent learning worthless degenerate garbage when you should have been here, on your knees, in front of me. Begging to take me in your mouth." He hadn't stopped stroking.

In a panic, her eyes shot up to lock against his, but he was laughing. "You haven't earned it yet, woman," he said, and twisted his grip on her hair, tilting her head even further back and arcing her chest upwards. "Look at me." he mumbled, with the voice of a man whose head was getting lost in masturbation. She did, quite unable to do much else, as random filthy words poured from Otho's lips, denigrating her as a whore, a slut, a waste. She struggled to keep herself together. This was the lowest she'd ever been. Captured, bound, on her knees before a man so aroused by her degradation that he stroked himself to the mere sight of it, turning even her own humiliation into an object to pleasure himself with. That was her life now. That was all she was to him. All she would be to anyone. 

"I own you," he groaned as the pace of the fist around his cock quickened, the dry sliding sound echoing in her ears, "You're mine. _Mine._ " and with a guttural snarl, his cock shot a long string of sticky white cum onto her face, emptying an impossible amount of disgusting slime over her eyes and lips, down her neck, onto the front of her shift... and as she felt her mind slipping away into blissful denial, he gathered his armored belt from the floor and disappeared, leaving her exhausted and alone to deal with the aftermath of his pleasure.

Collapsing onto her side, Six reflected on her thoughts from only minutes before and felt them truer than ever: she was a courier, a mercenary, a major leading force in the Mojave theater... but she had never felt less so than just now.

**Author's Note:**

> This PWP has an end goal but no particular path to get there, so if you have any requests, let me know. This is my first posted fanfic but I know I love it when writers indulge my kink. 
> 
> Tags will be added as shit comes up.


End file.
